


Dear John...

by space_kid (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/space_kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm so cold, John. </p><p>***</p><p>My cot is lonely without you, Sherlock.</p><p>*~*~*~</p><p>In which John is shipped out to the war, the only form of communication being letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear John...

They met when both of them were least expecting it. All either of them wanted to do was study for that damn writing exam, one of them simply wanting to read, the other just making it in terms of grades. They both were insecure as hell, one being too poor to afford a conventional education, the other suffering from parental abuse to the tenth degree and both of them, needing the other like air. Maybe all they needed in life was love, actually. They simply needed the other around as often as possible, to soothe bloodied thoughts and mend scars long past created. One with wrists slit in a rage, the other with ribcage jutting out porcelain skin, bone shrouded by a paper thin shield. One who lives in sweaters, soft and a bit scratchy to the touch, the other armored in a long navy blue trench coat, a blue scarf to match. All one wanted to do was find adventure, and to fight an enemy who was worth the blood and sweat. The other wanted him to stay, please stay, but his determination was unwavering. 3 months after John applied, he was shipped out, leaving all the scars, all the pain, all of John Watson. But at the same time, he left his Sherlock, his love, his song, his heart. Both on different continents, just trying to keep the line alive and thriving, trying to stick it out until they reunite, and are finally free and happy. But until that glorious day, Sherlock and John only had one way of communicating.

Letters couldn't be sent fast enough.

***

March 16, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
My hand is shaking, and I can't exactly pinpoint why. Maybe it's because I'm so nervous, flying into unknown territory, into possible death. But I think it's simply knowing that when I roll over on my cot, a cold space will be left for you. Call me corny and old fashioned, but I can't control it. It's only been 7 hours, and I still miss your hands intertwined with mine, like branches growing together in a twist. I can't wait to return to you, and be free.

With love,  
John Hamish Watson

***

March 29, 2010

Dear John,  
I would call you corny and old fashioned, if I didn't feel at least remotely similar. These past couple of days have been, in a simple way, difficult. You had to go on and make everything smell just like your detergent. It is disappointing to see not only an absence of John in my life, but also his favorite sweater that smells just like him. Next time you leave, I request you leave your wardrobe for me. This is not an open discussion, John. Write back soon.

-SH

***

April 7, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
As much as I'd love to leave you all my clothes, I'm afraid I need them. Today's drill was tough, and we walked probably 28 miles, and back, all in chafing clothes and muddy boots. It's days like today I seriously miss the rainy days we'd spend inside, making experiments and stealing kiss a from the other. I miss us.

Yours,  
John Hamish Watson

***

April 14, 2010

Dear John,  
If it makes you feel any better, I miss us as well. I miss your sandy hair, your eyes, but mostly your smile. I don't know what you do to it, John, but your smile is simply so beautiful, I cannot fathom words when I see the familiar crinkle in your eyes, promising true grace. I miss us too, John. Write back soon.

-SH

***

April 20, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
I knew death hurt, but what I've felt today has stung me to the core. He was just a kid, Sherlock. I think his name was Mike. His dad fought, so he thought he'd do good at it. He was talking about his 2 little girls and his wife when I watched his brains fly out the back of his head. I got winged on my shoulder, but that kid... He was so young, couldn't have been older then 25. Sherlock... it could've been me. If I was standing 5 feet closer, my brains would be lost in the shrubbery and mud, gone forever. When we get home, hug me and never let me go.

Love,  
John Watson

***

April 31, 2010

Dear John,  
Death is simply something that happens. We all go through it, the world doesn't stop to notice you left. I love you.

-SH

***

May 3, 2010

Do you remember when we first kissed? We were sitting on the hood of your car, backs on the cold metal, hands atop one another. I asked you about constellations, and laughed at me. Did you know your laugh is heavenly? It is, I assure you. Your lips were gentle and kind, moving effortlessly along mine, causing pants and nipping. I love you too.

Love,  
John Watson

***

May 15, 2010

Dear John,  
Come home, I'm bored.

-SH

***

May 22, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
I'm lonely here, Sherlock. Where are you? Why aren't you here with me? I love you Sherlock Holmes.

Loving you,  
John

***

June 16, 2010

Dear John,  
I haven't been sending so much mail lately, due to the fact that I've been thinking alot. Thinking about us, as people. You have a soft exterior, with a steel soul washed with blood of those you did you wrong. I am a steel exterior, proudly showing off my icy personality, with a soft middle only for you John Watson, the one with the key to my emotions. The more thinking I do, that more I hate the fact you are not here with me. I know I have to wait, but you know that patience was never a virtue of mine. John Watson, will you marry me, forever until we are buried into this idiotic earth, separated by soil and rock? But even then, I'll love you with everything I am. Marry me, John?

Love,  
Sherlock

***

June 28 2010

Dear John,  
Where are you John? I'm so lonely and cold here.

Find me,  
Sherlock

***

July 3, 2010

John?  
-Sherlock Holmes

***

July 19, 2010

John,  
Please say something to me, my love. Please tell me to fuck off, that you don't love me any more, that you don't want to marry a freak like me. Please John, say something to me. This silence is too silent for me to handle. I've done experiments on this theory, and I concluded that your silence is about 1644% more loud then any scream admitted by these fools. Please John, I love you.

Loving you,  
Sherlock

***

August 13, 2010

Please I'm so cold.

***

September 4, 2010

Dear John,  
I made my regular trip to the post office, heart reaching and aching for a postcard, or even a shoelace from you. But I got one thing I surely wasn't expecting: an invitation. I knew that this light shade of green was your favorite, seeing the hue making me feel. But as soon as I saw the handwriting, I could hear ny life falling to rubble. This hand writing and tear stained stationary only ment one thing: funeral. But the color plus the hand writing, ment it's your funeral. I would be heartbroken, except for the fact that you aren't dead. The only thing that can kill a John Watson, is something John would want to kill him. Your sister must be truely devastated, due to the fact that she misspelled the location of the church. I will not be attending a sham. Write back soon. I love you.

Love,  
Sherlock

*** 

Sherlock walked out to his porch the fall, air crisp and cold. He looked around, taking in the sights of falling leaves and people walking. He smiled as he imagined John walking with him, down the street, hands clasped and eyes forward. 

John.

Sherlock winced at the memory of his lost boy resurfaced in his mind. John was so beautiful, so broken, and so very dead. John was dead. He never came home, to Sherlock's arms. John never told Sherlock how the war was. John never just let Sherlock hold him while he cried about Mike. He died afraid. Alone. Sherlock shuddered. John.  
He was interrupted by the mailman, who sauntered up the stairs, like today was fine and okay. Sherlock glared at him, disgusted. How could it be okay when John was dead? The mailman smiled at him.

"Good morning, Sherlock! Lovely weather, isn't it?" He grinned white. Sherlock sneered.

"It's disgusting today. Too bright, too cold." He muttered. The mailman simply stared at Sherlock, confused, before shaking his head.

"Well, I got your mail." He gave a small smile. "Plus, the post office is going out of business, which means we cleaned out the back room. And look what I found..." The mailman pulled out 5 letters, slightly dusty and wrinkled. Sherlock's brow creased together in confusion. The mailman continued. "From a Mr... John Wat-" The man didn't even finish his sentence before snatching the letters from his hands, slamming the door in his face. John.

Sherlock sprinted to his bedroom, closing the door on the world. Right now, it was about John and his letters. Sherlock noticed the dates. June 20, 2010. July 1, 2010. July 30, 2010. August 21, 2010. September 19, 2010. Sherlock noticed the last date, feeling his heart twist. September 19, 2010. The day John threw himself in front of a grenade, losing a leg and bleeding out at the feet of the enemy. He grabbed a letter knife, and carefully sliced the paper of the first letter.

***

June 20, 2010.

Dear Sherlock,  
You dare call me corny? Haha, of course I'll marry you, you idiot. I love you so much. The guys behind me keep shoving me, and making me blush. What assholes.  
Anyway, I have something to give you. In this envelope, I'll include a bottle ring. When you wear it, know I'll be wearing the same one, over here, at least until I get home and we buy regular rings. One rule: on the wedding information, we don't include my middle name. I love you Sherlock.

With love,  
John

***

Sherlock felt around for the bottle ring, and when he located it, his eyes filled with tears of rage. John should be home, with him. Instead, he's rotting away in a box. Sherlock slips the bottle ring on his ring finger, smiling at the slight scratch of plastic on skin. John was his, this proved it. He opened the second letter.

***

July 1, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
I'll be home soon, my love. I'm cold here too. Lost another guy today. I wish I was home.  
-John

***

Silent tears flowed down Sherlock's cheeks at the words. John was so cold without him. John needed him as much as Sherlock needed John. A sob escapes his body. John. He opened the third letter, smoothing out the paper, carefully trying to not get wet tears on the paper.

***

July 30, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
I'm trying to yell, Sherlock. I'm screaming at you in my dreams, when you keep walking away from me. I'm not silent, so I guess you're not getting my letters. But I'm getting yours, and I still have them in a shoebox under the cot. I accidentally got some blood on them, sorry. I'll get it cleaned up when I get home. I told my tent mates that I was gay today, which resulted to violence and yelling. We all settled down, but only after I got cut on my arm. Do you still have that tea we got from Ohio? I really miss it right now.

Love,  
John

***

Sherlock's hands clenched the paper tightly, causing angry wrinkles. Someone hurt John. Someone sliced John's shoulder, causing him to bleed. Sherlock wishes death upon those men, no matter how far away they probably were. His teeth gritted in frustration, tears falling off his nose. He opened the 4th letter carefully, hands shaking.

***

August 21, 2010

Sherlock,  
The day is approaching, in which I am flying home on an airplane, into your arms. Count the minutes, my love.  
-John

***

Sherlock's hand slid over to the final letter, breath catching and tears streaming. He wrote him a letter on the day he died. His last words. The paper sliced, and he slid the white sheet out as carefully as possible.

***

September 19, 2010

Dear Sherlock,  
Today is the day I return to you, Sherlock. Today is the day all the blood ends, all the tears stop, everything just stops. I have one more drill before I get to return to my tent, say goodbye to my soldiers, and get picked up. I can't wait to tell you all the stories I heard from these guys. One man named Jim said he had shot 18 guys in one day. I want to say that he was a good shot, but at the same time, 18 sons and husbands and brothers died at his hands. I want to say I can put this all behind me, and forget the bloodshed, but I know this will never leave me. I know that when I open my eyes at night, I'll be in your arms, safe. My husband. My love. My everything. I can't wait, Sherlock, to see you. I love you.

Yours,  
John Watson

***

Sherlock sat on his creaky bed, cold from lack of John's presence. He stopped trying to be quiet, and let the tears and sobs into the air, hoping that maybe John could hear how broken he was without his solider. He wanted to scream at the sky to take him instead, and curse the world. God took the most beautiful man in the world, and blew his leg off. Did John think of Sherlock when he held his disembodied leg? Did John think about their wedding when he felt his blood pulse through his fingers? Was John wearing his bottle cap ring? Did John cry? 

Sherlock held his head in his hands, surrounded by the emptiness of the room, the sickening sweetness of the memories. He let the sadness escape his broken eyes, the gasping air of him, trying to get a good breath, only to get the smell of John's detergent. The freshness was so offputting, Sherlock fought down bile in his throat.  
He looked up, into the mirror, seeing his tear stained face and splochy red face, feeling broken. He proceeded to stand up, and make his way to his desk, littered with lab results and blank sheets. He noticed a picture of John and himself, John smiling, Sherlock smoking. John always scolded him for it. Sherlock smoked far more then usual nowadays. John would be disappointed. Sherlock shook his head, wiping that memory away. He picked up a blank sheet and a pen, and started writing. He began writing to his dead husband. 

***

November 4, 2010

John Hamish Watson,  
Come home, love.

-Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for the support on this story, I seriously cannot fathom this, and I continuously get a heart attack every time I see these reads :) thank you thank you thank you <33


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